


KEEPING WARM

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blanket Fic, Concussions, Fluff, Gen, Healer Anders, Hypothermia, M/M, Pre-Relationship, but without actual blankets, fun with magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke takes a bad spill off a cliff into a river during a fight. Varric can't swim, and Aveline's in full plate; it's up to Anders to keep their fearless leader safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	KEEPING WARM

**Author's Note:**

> A short fic written for a prompt on Tumblr, "Imagine your OTP keeping each other warm."

Funny, Hawke thought through the haze that had fallen over everything; he’d always thought that Kirkwall was supposed to be warm. Right now, he didn’t think he could even remember what ‘warm’ felt like; he wasn’t sure he’d ever know again.

Maybe he’d been expecting a bit much; Kirkwall might be warmer than Ferelden, but that wasn’t a very high bar to clear. Even the more temperate northern climes had their seasons and their cold snaps, and today had been both; a week’s worth of chill winter mist had coalesced this morning as a hard freeze, leaving a film of black ice over stone everywhere they went.  
  
It was definitely the ice’s fault, Hawke decided, trying to sort through the confused images of the past few hours. They’d been out on the Wounded Coast, looking for… something… Hawke couldn’t even remember what, even though he’d been the one to take the job. They’d run into a band of Tal-Vashoth, the grey-skinned giants rendered no slower by the unaccustomed cold, although they seemed definitely more cranky.  
  
Hawke had backed up against the edge of one of the many cliffs and ravines that scored the Wounded Coast, trying to entice the troublesome spear-thrower into closing the distance so that Aveline could get at him. It was a tactic that had worked many times before, but he hadn’t counted on the spray of water from the river below that had frozen to slick ice under his boots. Something jolted him – a spear, an arrow, the blow of a sword, he wasn’t even sure – and he’d fallen.  
  
Worried shouts had echoed down from above as the rock walls rushed past him, and he remembered looking up to see the towering stone cliff haloed against the sky. The last thing he’d remembered seeing was the blur of a human body diving over the edge of the cliff after him; then his body had struck the water and his head had struck the rock, and everything went cold.  
  
Cold was all there was – his purpose, his friends, even his name all sucked away into that hungry vortex of icy water. He could feel the heat streaming out of the gash on his head, leaching out of his limbs and his body and dragging him down. Somewhere, he remembered dimly, there was warmth – light – and air, but he couldn’t remember what such things were like, let alone how to go about getting them.  
  
The world fogged out, then came back with a bump; a different kind of cold hit him like a slap in the face, and he took an involuntary gasp. His eyes blinked open, and he saw a blur of light grey and dark grey – and, off to his side, a dark solid figure that looked somehow familiar.  
  
“Are you with me, Hawke?” the figure said. Hawke recognized the voice, though he was still too disoriented to place it; the world still swayed and rocked about them, with only one solid point of contact holding him steady. Rhythmic waves of motion surged through them both, with the water splashing about his ears, and Hawke lost hold of things again.  
  
He came back to himself when weight returned, and with it the frigid feeling of cold air on his wet skin and clothes; they were in the shallows now, and his rescuer had a hand under each of his armpit and was dragging him from the water. Hawke tried to rouse himself to motion, to help, but his movements were feeble and sluggish. At the very least he tried to form the words “thank you,” but as soon as he opened his mouth he was racked by an intense shivering that locked his jaw closed. The shivering intensified until he nearly shook himself out of the other man’s grasp.  
  
“Sry,” he muttered, and his rescuer laughed softly.  
  
“Don’t be; shivering’s good,” the man said, and Hawke knew that voice, he did. Anders, his brain finally supplied; Anders had jumped over the cliff after him, had swum them both to safety. “Shows your body’s starting to fight back.”  
  
“How’d you…” Hawke managed to get out. “S-swim?”  
  
“I’ll have you know I was the champion swimmer at Kinloch Hold,” Anders said with some pride. “Probably the only swimmer at Kinloch Hold,” he added slightly less proudly a moment later. “It wasn’t exactly a skill they wanted us mages to know. But I managed to swim right across the lake on my first escape attempt… which is probably why, really.”  
  
Being dragged along became suddenly a lot more uncomfortable when they finally left the water, Hawke’s full weight returning to crush him.  He struggled to get to his feet, to walk under his own power, but the wet stone slipped under his feet and the world tilted sickeningly to the diagonal around him. He coughed, raggedly, feeling wet sucking in his chest but not having the strength to expel it; every spasm felt like it would rack his head apart.  
  
“Careful there,” Anders said, catching him around the waist and looping Hawke’s arm over the back of his neck. He pressed a palm against Hawke’s side, and heat blazed from his hand, radiating out in waves from that one blessed point of contact. The sudden return of heat to his world after the numbing cold left Hawke gasping, and for a shocking moment clarity returned.  
  
“You jumped,” Hawke realized. “After me? Stupid… dangerous…”  
  
“Well, sure, but who else was going to drag your sorry tail out of the freezing river?” Hawke felt Anders’ shrug through his numbed arm. “You know Varric can’t swim, and Aveline’s in full plate. She’d sink right to the bottom and then where would you be?”  
  
“At the bottom?” Hawke mumbled, and Anders laughed.  
  
“Good to see your sense of humor is still terrible,” he said. “I’d start to worry about you otherwise.”  
  
Hawke didn’t answer; he couldn’t. His head was beginning to hurt, throbbing with slow deep waves of pain that rolled through his entire body, and he still couldn’t see straight or breathe deeply.  The heat that Anders had conjured for him felt Maker-sent, but it was only a surface warmth; the deeper cold was still inside of him, and the tearing bite of the wind wasn’t helping either.  
  
Anders didn’t seem to mind, keeping up a stream of soothing nonsense chatter as he guided them stumbling over the rough, slippery stone. It was his healer-voice, Hawke realized; calm and professional with just a hint of warmth. He’d heard Anders use it on his patients – having it used on him was almost more frightening than all the rest. But he couldn’t do anything about it except let Anders guide him.  
  
After a nightmarish journey, they seemed to have got wherever they were going; Anders’ hands turned him around (making the world spin in the other direction) and sat him down against a wall of stone. The stone was still cold, but the freezing wind had cut off, and there was a dry and level patch of actual dirt under him. “Not exactly a four-star hotel, but this’ll do,” Anders said briskly. “Sit tight for a moment, I’ll get a fire going.”  
  
Anders left, taking those heat-radiating hands with him, and Hawke could have cried. He sat curled up, fighting off waves of cold and pain, until he heard the clatter of wood falling onto stone. He opened his eyes in time to see fire bloom from Anders’ bare hands, channeling into the pile of driftwood until it caught, burning with a strange greenish tinge to the flames. The heat caught up with him next – almost too hot to stand, but Hawke huddled closer to it gratefully.  
  
Once the fire was going strong Anders knelt down on the patch of dirt and gripped his shoulders, encouraging him to uncurl. “Let’s have a look at that head of yours,” he said. Hawke looked up bare inches into his face, and found his vision in focus for the first time since he’d fallen.  
  
The sight that met him was not encouraging. Anders was a mess, his blond hair soaked brown and stuck flat to his head, his coat water-darkened and the feathers sadly bedragged. There was blood smeared over his hands, and dirt across his cheeks. “You look like a drowned sewer rat,” Hawke said before he could stop himself.  
  
Anders snorted. “You should see yourself,” he said. “Just as much of a drowned rat, except you’ve got the bonus of blood pouring out of your head and all over your face, too. Maybe we should save the beauty contests till we get back to Kirkwall.”  
  
Despite the light and joking tone, there was worry in his amber eyes as he brought his hands up to Hawke’s face. One hand gripped his chin and gently tilted his head to the side, the other reaching up out of his sight to brush against the side of his head. Agony flared in Hawke’s skull, quickly followed by a sweet tingling thrum as healing magic radiated from Anders’ hands.  
  
Hawke couldn’t help but sigh in relief as the magic washed through him, cascading down over his nerves and silencing the pain. Unlike the heat Anders had conjured earlier, this warmed him from the inside out; his stomach settled and he felt much better.  
  
But still not well. “You’ve lost a lot of blood,” Anders reported as he let go of the spell and shifted his hands down to Hawke’s neck, checking his pulse. “And your core temperature is too low. Better stay still for now, until you get warm again. Blasted knickerweasels…” Anders’ muttering trailed off as his hands skipped down Hawke’s body, slipping under his shirt to feel his heart, his breathing. He ran his hands down Hawke’s arms to check for breaks, studying his hands intently before releasing another wash of healing magic into them, fighting back the deadness that had begun to set into his fingers.  
  
It all would have been very sexy, if Hawke hadn’t currently been half-drowned, half-frozen, and at least two-thirds of the way dead.  
  
“Can you do that…” Hawke leaned into Anders’ hands, and sighed. “That warm thing, again? With your hands?”  
  
Anders paused in his ministrations, then his hands slid slowly back up to press against Hawke’s chest. “What, this?” he asked, and waves of warmth radiated out from his palms.  
  
Hawke’s whole body shivered, and then he slumped into it, eyes growing heavy. He suddenly felt deathly tired. “Magic is wonderful,” he groaned.  
  
He heard a soft laugh, and Anders shifted position but kept the heat spell going. “It is, isn’t it?” he said, sounding amused. “Magic is a gift from the Maker.”  
  
“So ’re you,” Hawke muttered, on the verge of sleep.  
  
There was a moment of silence, as of breath caught and held; then Anders shifted, leaned forward, and gently kissed Hawke’s hair. “Just rest,” he said softly. “You’ll be all right. I’ll keep you warm.”  
  
Hawke slid down into sleep again, and felt nothing but safe. 

* * *

 

~end


End file.
